Can't Fight This Feeling Anymore
by dittypiddler
Summary: Lee makes a lifealtering decision. But sometimes the best laid plans of mice and Lee Stetson . . .


Title: Can't Fight This Feeling Anymore 

Author: Rita (dittypiddler)

Disclaimer: Scarecrow and Mrs. King belong to Shoot the Moon Productions and Warner Brothers. No infringement intended.

Notes: "Can't Fight This Feeling Anymore" is by REO Speedwagon. Thanks to Taya for making the video that inspired this little ditty.

Summary: Lee makes a life-altering decision. But sometimes the best laid plans of mice and Lee Stetson . . .

Thanks to Cheryl and NancyY for the beta.

Timeframe: Third season, between "ATWAS" and "Stemwinder."

Rating: PG-13

Feedback: Always.

**Can't Fight This Feeling Anymore**

Lee downed his drink and scanned the garish salon, with its crystal chandeliers and abstract nude paintings, and wished he were anywhere but here. Damn Billy Melrose for sending him to this party from hell without his partner. And triple damn whatever fate had stricken Amanda with a stomach virus. He thumped his glass down on the bar and raked his fingers through his hair.

Tonight, of all nights, he was drowning in glitz and glitter, when he should be with Amanda--taking care of her, feeding her chicken soup, making sure she . . . Hell, he just needed to be with her. He hadn't even had a chance to see her since last night. Phone calls weren't enough.

When he spotted the blonde advancing on him carrying two wineglasses, he ducked his head and strode to the end of the bar. He'd much rather be sitting in Amanda's kitchen, drinking hot chocolate, than sipping Dom Perignon with a "Marilyn Monroe" wannabe.

Why couldn't Francine have handled this simple assignment? This kind of affair was right up her alley. She'd kill for a chance to mingle with the wealthy tuxedo-clad men strutting up to the bar and guzzling champagne. And she'd fit right in with the socialites, in their designer gowns and dripping with enough diamonds to stock Tiffanys. No, Francine would have no complaints about attending this soiree.

Well, there was a time when he wouldn't have complained either. But now the shallow, empty-headed females, who had accosted him ever since he'd walked into the room, held as much appeal as the rat-infested catacombs of Istanbul. Lee had met his contact and gleaned what information the pseudo-waiter had to offer. If he could survive this torture long enough for the man to clear the building, he could beat a discreet exit and still have time to check on his partner. He looked at his watch and cast a longing glance toward the door.

Amanda. Just the thought of her brought a smile to his lips. Over the past three years, she had become more than a friend, more than a partner. She was . . . Amanda. No man had ever fought harder at a losing battle, but he'd known for a long time that he had lost. He was in love with her. And once his heart had crossed that line, there was no turning back. Now if he could just find the courage to tell her.

After Dorothy's death and Eva's betrayal, he'd been soured on love. He'd gravitated to the good-time girls, the safe ones--who required no emotional investment. 'The cheaper the grapes are, the sweeter the taste of the wine.' Were the women who had filled his black books that base? Maybe. Aside from their physical attributes, he'd never bothered to get to know most of them well enough to find out.

Although Leslie had class, she'd only been a clone of Amanda. When he closed his eyes, he saw Amanda's face, heard Amanda's voice. After his faux pas at dinner that night in his apartment, he'd realized he needed the real thing, not an imitation. It hadn't been fair to Leslie, either. The other entries in his black books had been . . . distractions. Just a warm body on a lonely night. But when his fireplace had charred those infamous books to ashes, he'd closed the door on that chapter of his life.

"Why, Lee Stetson, you sexy devil! I haven't seen you in just _ages. _Where ya been keepin' yourself, sugar?"

The syrupy drawl invaded his thoughts with all the finesse of a gas grenade. Oh, crap. A pair of predatory arms snaked around his neck, and breasts the size of grapefruit on steroids crushed into his chest. The scent of alcohol--strong enough to send him to the men's room for a communion with "brother john"--and spicy perfume knocked him back on his heels. He managed a dignified, albeit unsteady, retreat from the cloying arms of the tall blonde in the barely-there turquoise gown.

"Oh, um, hi . . . uh . . ." He searched his memory for a name from his defunct little black books.

"Clarrise, sugar. Clarrise Marshall." Her red-painted lips pursed into a pathetic attempt at a pout. "Don't tell me you've forgotten little ole me?" Her ice-blue eyes plundered his body from head to foot.

He felt like filet mignon--about to be consumed.

Clearing his throat, he straightened his tie with one hand and buttoned his tuxedo jacket with the other. "Ah, Clarrise, of course. How have you been?" If her eyelashes batted any faster, they were sure to disintegrate. He may have been out of the loop for a year, but he still recognized false eyelashes. Lord, what in the name of common sense had he ever seen in the woman? Besides the obvious, that is. And even the obvious wasn't tempting anymore.

"I'd be a lot better if I was dancin' with you, sugar," she purred. Her buxom body slithered against his chest, and her hips wiggled the length of his zipper. His lack of reaction didn't surprise him, but it sure must have given her a jolt. She stepped back and stared at him, astonishment written all over her kittenish face. Then her lips twisted into a cheesy grin.

"Bless your heart, sugar. Whatever's wrong with you tonight, I'm sure your little ole Georgia peach can make it all better." She closed in on him again.

Ah, hell. "I really don't think--" He edged farther away from her. Stacked or not, the besotted blonde disgusted him.

"Come on, sugar! Let's party!"

Before he could react, she'd clutched his arm in an iron grip and dragged him onto the dance floor. Too bad agents were required to maintain a low profile. He felt like body-slamming her.

As they danced to the New-Age music, he tried to hold her at a respectable distance, while searching for any avenue of escape, but she wrapped herself around his body like a boa constrictor. Her hands slid under his jacket and up his silk shirt, her crimson nails grazing his skin through the thin material. When her mouth headed for his lips, Lee recoiled from her whiskey-tainted breath and clenched his jaw. He disentangled her clinging arms from around his neck and squelched the urge to throw her in the nearest drunk-tank.

"Awww, sugar, lighten up! You gotta get in the mood." Her pillaging fingers unbuttoned his jacket, and then her hands slinked down his chest and under his cummerbund to his belt. Apparently oblivious to the crowded room, she ground her hips into him. Whatever parts of his anatomy her roving eyes hadn't already undressed, her greedy hands seemed determined to finish the task.

Lee repressed an impulse to pull out his cuffs and snap them on her wrists.

If Amanda touched him like this, he would've melted into a quivering puddle by now. But the trashy blonde-by-request only annoyed him. Blonde? He vaguely remembered . . . Oh, yeah. He had the perfect solution to his problem. To hell with discretion. A man could only take so much of this crap, and his quota was filled.

He looked down at the shimmying bimbo and mimicked her sultry drawl. "Oh, Carol darlin', did you know your roots are showing?" He'd do penance for bad manners later. "Maybe you need a little trip to your hairdresser, sugar." That did it.

She jerked back, her face almost as red as her nails. "Well! I do declare, Lee Stetson!" She placed her hands on her hips and pinned him with a look that would liquefy gold. "That's hardly the thing a gentleman would say to a lady! And the name's Clarrise!"

Lee pasted on a mock-contrite expression. "You're right, uh, Carla, a gentleman would never say such a thing to a lady." He flashed her a derisive grin. "But he would say it to you." He caught her wrist, just before she slapped his face, and laughed when she yanked free and huffed away, muttering some very unladylike expletives.

She glanced over her shoulder and yelled back at him. "My name is Clarrise, you lousy jerk! Clarrise!" She tottered precariously on her spiked heels and staggered toward the powder room.

Mission accomplished. Lee chuckled and rubbed his hands together. Now to get out of this den of iniquity and visit Amanda before she went to bed. He adjusted his jacket and made a beeline to the front door.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Lee thrummed his fingers on the steering wheel and shifted in his seat, weighing the odds of getting caught if he ran what had to be the longest red light in D.C. When the light finally turned green, he gunned the 'Vette and sped toward Arlington.

Tooling the car down the quiet street past manicured lawns and neatly clipped hedges, he spotted the warm glow of light trickling through the downstairs windows of 4247 Maplewood Drive. Good. She was still up.

He reached to turn off the radio but paused with his fingers on the knob, listening to the lyrics of the uncannily appropriate song. _Like a candle in the window . . . _Lee smiled to himself. Yes, that was just what she was to him. Well, it wasn't a dark winter's night, and he didn't need to come crashing through her door, though it had certainly taken him long enough to stop fighting his feelings. He grimaced and shook his head. Three wasted years. But the Scarecrow had finally found a brain.

After parking the 'Vette down the street, he crept along the familiar route leading to Amanda's kitchen window. He skulked along the side of the house, then straightened and chided himself for his excessive stealth. She'd told him last night that Phillip and Jamie would be with Joe this weekend and her mother wouldn't be back from her trip to Myrtle Beach for another week. He could've just knocked on the front door.

What would it be like to walk up to the door like any normal person, instead of sneaking around like some Peeping Tom? Just walk into the living room and take her in his arms and . . . 'Whoa, Stetson. You're getting ahead of yourself.' They'd only been dating a few months. He hadn't even met her family. Well, not formally. But he felt he knew Dotty and the boys. He'd dwelled on the edge of their lives, watching over them, protecting them--just as he protected Amanda.

Peering through the window, he spied her at the stove. His gaze swept from her tousled chestnut curls to the tips of her bare feet. Even wearing a simple white robe, and with her face devoid of make-up, she was the classiest, sexiest, most beautiful woman he had ever known.

When he tapped on the window, Amanda looked up and smiled, then set the teapot down and motioned toward the back door.

Blowing her a kiss, he nodded and sprinted around the corner of the house. He entered the kitchen and drew her into his arms, inhaling the delicate scent of lavender shampoo mixed with the aroma of flowers. Melding her slender body to his, he captured her lips in a long, slow kiss. He released her lips and relaxed his arms, sliding his hands to her waist.

"Mmmm. I've been wanting to do that all day." He eyed the bouquet of fresh daisies sitting on the island countertop. "Don't tell me you've been picking flowers? You must be feeling better. You certainly look better than you did last night." He slipped his arm around her waist as they strolled into the den. "In fact, you look good enough to eat." He winked and gave her a peck on the lips.

Amanda swatted his shoulder. "Ohhh, _you_." A very becoming rosy glow flushed her cheeks. "And I'm fine now, thank you. It must've been one of those twenty-four hour bugs." Her brown eyes swept his form, much the way his own eyes had admired her through the window. "Oh, my. Be still my heart." She grinned and placed her hand on her chest. "I'll say one thing for you, Stetson. You _can_ wear a tux."

"I know I can." He smirked and squared his shoulders.

Her grin widened. "I know you know." She trailed her fingertip down his lapel and wrinkled her nose. "Phew! I must say . . . you smell . . . um . . . interesting. New aftershave?"

"Oh, please," he groaned. "Don't remind me. I was almost ravished on the dance floor by a soused blonde." He shrugged off his jacket and flung it onto a chair, then tugged off his tie and stuffed it into his pocket.

"Aw, poor baby." Amanda snickered and picked up his jacket, smoothed the wrinkles, and draped it neatly over the back of the chair. "It must be tough being you, with all those desperate women lusting after you." She sat down on the couch and patted the spot next to her.

"Yeah, well, it's a dirty job, but somebody's gotta do it." Plopping down beside her, he unbuttoned his shirt collar and rolled up his sleeves. "You know, if you'd been with me tonight, you could've protected me." He kissed the tip of her nose and settled back on the couch, tucking her close to his side.

"Ugh. I don't think I'm up to hazardous duty, Stetson." She sighed and rested her head on his shoulder. "Besides, I haven't passed hand-to-hand combat training yet." Her lips curved into a faint smile, but her somber eyes betrayed her teasing tone.

He slipped his arm under her knees and lifted her into his lap, cuddling her against him. "Hey, you don't have anything to worry about, lady." He smiled and tightened his arms around her. "I'm off the market, remember?"

"Yeah, but unfortunately, nobody knows that except us. We're not exactly what you'd call a normal couple." She drew a tremulous breath and let it out slowly. "Sometimes I think I tell more lies than Pinocchio. It's a wonder my nose isn't a foot long."

"Aw, but it's such a cute nose," he teased. At her despondent expression, he cleared his throat and nestled his cheek against her hair. "I know. But it won't be like that forever." He kissed her forehead and caressed her arm, trying to reassure her. "Trust me, Amanda."

"I always do," she whispered into his ear and snuggled closer. Before long, her gentle breathing told him she'd drifted off to sleep.

Yes, she always trusted him--through kidnappings, bullets, and nuclear bombs, not to mention his unruly temper. He wished he could do more to soothe her fears. Considering his well-earned reputation as a womanizer, he knew she felt insecure at times. If only he didn't get so damn tongue-tied whenever he tried to tell this woman how dearly he loved her.

He could look down the cold-steel barrel of a Glock, without batting an eye.

Just a routine day.

He could field slashes from a knife-wielding assassin.

No problem.

He could survive torture and interrogation from the best the KGB had to offer.

Child's play.

But when he tried to voice his feelings for Amanda, Lee Stetson--ladies man--floundered and stammered like a pimply-face schoolboy. He sighed and tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear. If only his heart had a voice . . .

"Bedtime for you, my love," he murmured. Cradling her in his arms, he rose from the couch and carried her up the stairs to her bedroom. He gently laid her on the bed and covered her with a light blanket. For a few moments, he leaned over her and studied her features, bathed in the soft moonlight filtering through the window. She looked so peaceful in sleep. So very beautiful. Drawing on every ounce of control he possessed, he resisted the temptation to crawl in beside her and touched his lips to hers. After one last look at her, he left the bedroom and trudged down the stairs.

Lee slung his still pungent jacket over his shoulder and checked the doors and windows, making sure all were secure before easing the back door shut and locking it behind him. As he retraced his route to his car, he brushed his hand through his hair and heaved a weary sigh. He'd heard rumors of a big flap going down at the Agency in the next few days. Something called "Stemwinder." It sounded like heavy duty.

After scanning the hushed neighborhood, he unlocked the 'Vette. Nothing around to harm her tonight. Tossing his jacket over the back of the seat, he slid into the car and keyed the ignition. When he turned on the radio, that song was playing again.

_I can't fight this feeling any longer. And yet, I'm still afraid to let it flow . . ._

Lee sucked in a sharp breath and rested his forehead against the cool steering wheel. As he listened to the words, he didn't know whether it was kismet, or perhaps the gods themselves, but it seemed _something_ was whispering to him--nudging him in the right direction.

_I only wish I had the strength to let it show . . ._

He lifted his head and scrubbed his hand across his brow and down his stubbled jaw. "I know exactly how you feel, pal," he muttered to the unseen vocalist.

_You give my life direction . . ._

Amanda. His adorable, wonderful, precious Amanda.

_I've forgotten what I started fighting for . . . _

"Stetson, you're a damn fool." He smacked his hand on the wheel. "And you're the biggest chicken on five continents." Whoever wrote those lyrics was a wise man. No, he _couldn't_ remember why he'd ever fought this feeling. Hell, he didn't want to fight it. It _was_ time to stop running around in circles. He needed to tell Amanda what was in his heart, and she needed to hear it. Tonight had only reinforced his commitment to her. Perhaps his distasteful encounter with what's her name was a blessing in disguise.

Now he had the courage to tell Amanda how he felt, and he resolved to tell her, as soon as this "Stemwinder" case was over. Feeling at peace with himself, Lee pulled the 'Vette away from the curb and drove toward Georgetown, running scenarios through his mind. A romantic dinner, candlelight, soft music . . .

The End


End file.
